Q3
As soon as we landed, James didn’t take me home. Instead, he took me to a hospital.
In the psychiatric ward, I stiffened at the entrance, my gaze shifting to James in horror. My voice trembled, on the verge of breaking.
“James, I swear I don’t love you anymore. I just want to go home. Please, don’t send me to a mental hospital.”
I didn’t dare to struggle. All I could do was clutch his sleeve, pleading softly.
James seemed to hear the fear in my voice. He slowly pried my fingers off, then flipped his grip to clasp my wrist instead.
When he grabbed my wrist, he seemed momentarily uncomfortable, perhaps due to how bony it felt. But the hesitation lasted only a second before he firmly shoved me into the consultation room.
Inside, a man in a white coat stood waiting. Thin–rimmed gold glasses framed his face, and something about him felt familiar.
When he saw me, his eyes lit up behind his lenses. His voice was gentle, reassuring. “Ms. Lewis, long time no see.”
I froze, surprised that he knew me. But before I could react, James threw me onto the examination table.
Being so thin, the impact sent pain shooting through my bones. But I didn’t dare to make
a sound. Over the past three years, the most important lesson I had learned was to endure beatings in silence.
Once they got tired of hitting me, they would eventually stop.
“Run some tests on her. I think there’s something wrong with her brain.”
I heard James coldly speak to the doctor.
Then both men turned to look at me. Their gazes were scrutinizing, assessing. I instinctively curled in on myself.
I wanted to protest that there was nothing wrong with my mind. If anything, my body needed
a real examination.
I was hurting. So badly.
But I didn’t dare to speak up. So, I cooperated with the kind–looking doctor, answering the
questions he asked, though there were many I couldn’t answer. Still, he was gentle. Whenever I
hesitated, he simply wrote the correct answer down for me.
So, the diagnosis was that there was nothing wrong with my mind.
I let out a breath of relief, thinking that this meant James had no reason to lock me in a
psychiatric hospital and would finally take me home.
But I never expected that the moment the doctor and I stepped out of the consultation room
Q3
As soon as we landed, James didn’t take me home. Instead, he took me to a hospital.
In the psychiatric ward, I stiffened at the entrance, my gaze shifting to James in horror. My voice trembled, on the verge of breaking.
“James, I swear I don’t love you anymore. I just want to go home. Please, don’t send me to a mental hospital.”
I didn’t dare to struggle. All I could do was clutch his sleeve, pleading softly.
James seemed to hear the fear in my voice. He slowly pried my fingers off, then flipped his grip to clasp my wrist instead.
When he grabbed my wrist, he seemed momentarily uncomfortable, perhaps due to how bony it felt. But the hesitation lasted only a second before he firmly shoved me into the consultation room.
Inside, a man in a white coat stood waiting. Thin–rimmed gold glasses framed his face, and something about him felt familiar.
When he saw me, his eyes lit up behind his lenses. His voice was gentle, reassuring. “Ms. Lewis, long time no see.”
I froze, surprised that he knew me. But before I could react, James threw me onto the
examination table.
Being so thin, the impact sent pain shooting through my bones. But I didn’t dare to make
a sound. Over the past three years, the most important lesson I had learned was to endure beatings in silence.
Once they got tired of hitting me, they would eventually stop.
“Run some tests on her. I think there’s something wrong with her brain.”
I heard James coldly speak to the doctor.
Then both men turned to look at me. Their gazes were scrutinizing, assessing. I instinctively curled in on myself.
I wanted to protest that there was nothing wrong.with my mind. If anything, my body needed
a real examination.
I was hurting. So badly.
But I didn’t dare to speak up. So, I cooperated with the kind–looking doctor, answering the
questions he asked, though there were many I couldn’t answer. Still, he was gentle. Whenever I hesitated, he simply wrote the correct answer down for me.
So, the diagnosis was that there was nothing wrong with my mind.
I let out a breath of relief, thinking that this meant James had no reason to lock me in a
psychiatric hospital and would finally take me home.
But I never expected that the moment the doctor and I stepped out of the consultation room
to deliver the results. James looked even angrier
